Bronchitis
by ibelieveinguardianangels
Summary: "In the blink of an eye Molly Hooper transitioned into Doctor Hooper. Her left hand came up to rest against the detective's chest, her right in between his shoulder blades as she guided him downwards onto the lab stool he had only vacated moments earlier." Sick Sherlock One-Shot.


**A Sherlolly sick fic! John is, admittedly, out of character, but he doesn't feature for very long anyway.**

 **Sorry for any mistakes.**

Bronchitis

In the blink of an eye Molly Hooper transitioned into Doctor Hooper. Her left hand came up to rest against the detective's chest, her right in between his shoulder blades as she guided him downwards onto the lab stool he had only vacated moments earlier.

She could feel his thoracic cavity rattling with the harsh, barking coughs that were racking his thin frame as she carefully patted his back with her right hand and held a hand towel under his chin with the other. She was patient, waiting as he coughed up whatever it was that was causing the irritation, but she couldn't stop the worry that was making her heart pound as she took notice of him.

His usually pale face was red, his eyes watering as he was coughing violently, retching against the towel in Molly's hand. Carefully, she tilted him forwards slightly, ignoring the excess drool hanging from his bottom lip.

"When did you develop the cough, Sherlock?" She questioned softly when the coughing fit finally came to an end. Removing the towel from beneath his chin, she threw it away in the nearby rubbish bin, tying up the bag to prevent Sherlock's germs from spreading. She gathered up a tissue and filled a glass with cold water, giving the now-out-of-breath detective time to sit up.

Handing over the tissue, she waited for him to wipe away the cough induced tears and blow his admittedly very bunged up nose before presenting him with the water.

Sherlock sipped carefully at the drink, clearing his throat occasionally, before looking over at Molly. She had to admit that she was thankful to find that his face had become a less alarming shade of red, though he remained flushed.

"Yesterday afternoon," Sherlock croaked eventually, clearing his throat again, "started with a sore throat and deteriorated over night."

"Have you been to see a doctor about it?" She inquired softly, carefully wiping the sweat away from his forehead with another tissue. His sad, watery eyes tugged at her heart strings as he looked up at her. He looked absolutely miserable.

"I'm here, aren't I?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow momentarily, before turning his attention back to the water in his hand. The coughing fit had clearly worn him out if his heavy eyelids were any indication.

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly sighed softly, "I may be a doctor, but I'm not the kind of doctor that you need right now. Haven't you contacted John?"

"He didn't answer. John has a new baby now, Molly, he's far too busy to be bothered by something so trivial." Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, clearing his throat again. Molly frowned at the detective momentarily before crossing the room to her bag and retrieving her phone with the words;

"I'm phoning John. He can come and check you over. Would you like to lay down?"

Scrolling through her contacts, she gestured vaguely to the table behind her.

"No offense Molly," Sherlock began, draining the rest of the glass, "but I'd prefer not to lay on an autopsy table until I'm dead."

"Oh," Molly flushed at the realisation of her words, "um, of course. Sorry." She turned away from the detective who she could imagine was no doubt smirking behind her.

Molly had to admit that she was rather annoyed and disheartened to find that John didn't answer his mobile. Instead, she received his answer phone.

Deciding that it would only be fair to Sherlock, she took him to her flat at the end of her shift because it was significantly closer to St Bartholomew's than his own was. After settling him on her couch under a blanket, she produced a bowl of soup for him to eat and insisted that she wouldn't take no for an answer. He required the sustenance.

"You can join me in my room tonight, Sherlock," Molly carefully combed her fingers through his curls, "I'd rather you stay here where I can keep an eye on you."

Sherlock's sleep was restless and Molly was awake in the middle of the night with the poor detective, who sounded like he was attempting to cough up his lungs or some other vital internal organ.

He was sitting in Molly's bed, his legs folded underneath him and the duvet up to his waist. The pathologist was kneeling on the bed beside him, carefully rubbing his back in an attempt to soothe him. She hadn't slept, she'd been lying awake beside him, listening to his congested breathing, accompanied with snores, when his chest and stomach began to spasm.

Knowing what was coming, Molly rose from the bed and collected any necessary equipment including a towel, a bucket, a flannel and a glass of water.

Poor Sherlock had coughed himself into wakefulness by the time Molly had returned to the bedroom. He had his hand clamped over his mouth as he fought to intake enough breath before the next round of coughing began.

"You're going to have to see a doctor tomorrow, Sherlock," Molly spoke softly as she helped the detective lie down again, laying beside him and encircling her arms around his thin frame. Sherlock was shattered, worn out by his coughing fit and Molly took the opportunity to comfort him, "if we can't contact John, then I'll take you to see my regular doctor. He's lovely."

The following day, Molly was pacing between the living room and the kitchen of her flat, keeping a close eye on the consulting detective who was lying on his back on the sofa, his eyes closed and a cool flannel resting on his forehead. His face was flushed with fever, his stomach and chest aching from the repetitive coughing as he breathed through his open mouth.

She breathed a sigh of relief as the phones were connected and John's voice rang through the speaker and into her ear. It was obvious that the doctor was clearly tired as he spoke and Molly assumed that's what a new baby would do you. But she pushed on, still frustrated that he had been ignoring calls from both herself and Sherlock.

She explained the situation to him and he promised that he would be there as soon as he could.

It was a further three hours before John finally knocked on the door of Molly's apartment, his medical kit clutched in his left hand. He apologised for his tardiness with the excuse that Mary had needed him to put the baby down to sleep and she wouldn't go down easily.

Molly bit her tongue, kept her opinions to herself and guided him over to where Sherlock was, now sitting up and sipping at a glass of water, pausing occasionally to try and clear his throat.

"Why didn't you answer your phone?" Sherlock inquired in a croak as John knelt down beside him and started to check his temperature. "I rung you three times. Molly rung twice." He spoke around the thermometer in his mouth. "Why didn't you answer? I could be in danger."

"I was busy." John answered vaguely, pressing the back of his hand against Sherlock's clammy forehead. "And you are in danger. If we can't get this fever down then you'll need to go to the hospital." He stated.

Bronchitis was John's final diagnosis as he observed the detective coughing up phlegm into the towel that Molly was holding beneath his chin. Poor Sherlock was tired, achy and stuffed up and all he wanted to do was sleep until his stupid illness had gone.

After being forced into a cold bath by John and Molly and complaining the entire time that wet underwear was an awful feeling, (Molly had chosen to leave his boxers on to protect his dignity), he was shivering violently under the blanket that she had covered him with, wrapped in Molly's extremely fluffy dressing gown.

"It's unusual for bronchitis to develop so suddenly," John noted, speaking to Molly as the detective began to doze off on the couch, "but Sherlock doesn't do things in halves, does he? What you're doing is fine, Molly. Keep him hydrated and give him some Ibuprofen for his pain. If it doesn't go away within a week or two, give me a call and I'll see what I can do about getting him some medication."

John took his leave after that, telling Molly that he needed to get back to Mary and the baby.

Sherlock awoke again at the sound of the door closing and Molly knelt down on the floor beside him, combing her fingers through his damp curls.

"Just sleep, Sherlock," She soothed, "you'll feel better soon."

 **Thank you for reading.**

 **I'd love to know what you think.**

 **ibelieveinguardianangels**


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